The war drums are sounded.
Men force their features into frightfulness and gnash their teeth;
and before they rush out to gather raw human flesh for death’s larder,
they march to the temple of Buddha, the compassionate,
to claim his blessings,
while loud beats the drums rat-a-tat
and earth trembles.

They pray for success;
for they must raise weeping and wailing
in their wake, sever ties of love,
plant flags on the ashes of desolated homes,
devastate the centres of culture
and shrines of beauty,
mark red with blood their trail
across green meadows and populous markets,
and so they march to the temple of Buddha, the compassionate,
to claim his blessings,
while loud beats the drum rat-a-tat
and earth trembles.

They will punctuate each thousand of the maimed and killed
with the trumpeting of their triumph,
arouse demon’s mirth at the sight
of the limbs torn bleeding from women and children;
and they pray that they may befog minds with untruths
and poison God’s sweet air of breath,
and therefore they march to the temple of Buddha, the compassionate,
to claim his blessings,
while loud beats the drum rat-a-tat
and earth trembles.

 

(Tagore wrote this poem after the beginning of the Second Sino-Japanese War, 1937)